Poems from the WEA Irish Literature Courses Petts Wood & Barnes Introduction ......................................................................................................2 Petts Wood Poetry .........................................................................................3 I’m fine, thanks .............................................................................................3 Haikus ..........................................................................................................5 Wartime experience of a young child ...........................................................6 My Farringdon Memory ................................................................................6 Perivale ........................................................................................................7 Haikus ..........................................................................................................8 February 6th 1952 .........................................................................................9 A suburban garden.......................................................................................9 And I remember............................................................................................9 Memories of Spain (after Louis MacNeice) ................................................11 Alford- A Remembrance.............................................................................12 Waiting .......................................................................................................13 Barnes Poetry...............................................................................................15 Transition ...................................................................................................15 A Poem - Memory ......................................................................................17 Haiku ..........................................................................................................17 Easter mystery ...........................................................................................20 Haikus on ‘Redemption’ .............................................................................21 Walk to Nowhere ........................................................................................21 Haikus Various ...........................................................................................22 At Starbucks ...............................................................................................23 Loss............................................................................................................24 Sleep Haikus ..............................................................................................25 And I Remember ........................................................................................26 Haikus ........................................................................................................27 Winter journal .............................................................................................27 Summer 1944.............................................................................................29 Brits at the End of Empire - Aden 1962 ...................................................30 Ornithological registration...........................................................................31 Going Home ...............................................................................................31 Redemption ................................................................................................32
Introduction This collection of poems was produced during the WEA Irish Literature courses in Petts Wood and Barnes. Under the tutelage of Louis Parker the courses explored Irish Literature between 1900 and the 1950s in the context of debates about Irish national identity and the nature of independence. The texts studied covered prose, drama and poetry from the period. Writers such as James Joyce, J. M. Synge, W.B. Yeats, Louis MacNeice, Elizabeth Bowen, and Samuel Beckett were studied. The sessions aimed to give students an understanding of these texts through a consideration of the social and political context in which they were written. The sessions were discussion-based with an emphasis on developing close reading skills and textual analysis.
Petts Wood Poetry
I’m fine, thanks “I’m fine, thanks”, is what I usually say when friends drop by and pass the time of day and so it seems most all the time its so although my bones do tell me that I’m rather old and my feet no longer do what they are told. Through changing moods, seasons and events Life holds surprises, trivial, tragic and immense To hold the attention and interest of each day. Our politicians fume and fret to find new ways to solve our gargantuan debt. and a cold wet winter keeps the spring at bay. And then one morning green has turned to sparkling white and all the land a solemn stillness holds trees, gardens, roofs bear their uninvited burden of new snow, no trains, no cars, no planes disturb the scene the working world becomes a place on hold and nature battens down against the stiffening cold. The spell is broken by children’s laughter and squeals of delight the way to school breaks into a snowball fighta mother, with a buggy in one hand
and a snowball in the other, defends her fight with her toddler foe and love flies through the air the child to mother. Indoors, it’s cosy and serene, and safe from winter’s shock and thoughts then turn to what the freezer has in stock bread, milk, anything more? I’m fine thanks, to the neighbour at the door. There’s comfort, pleasure and blessing in this mutual caring between neighbours interested, and sharing. Days and nights continue with no change this prolonged snow and bitter cold is really ratherstrange. At last, one day, white has now turned to speckled green and midst the blades of grass new spikes of white can now be seen the snowdrops are returning here once more. “February Maidens” the first few flowers to greet us who can resist praising this pure and simple nodding bell to peer inside and mark each green-striped dell? How do they know the time to rise through crunching earth to give us such delight. Spring is returning, the days lengthen, and there is newlight! Traffic again trains now to the city
engines buzz and wheels rotate. Unless we hurry we shall all be late. Normality is here once more. And I’m fine, thanks‌really. Margaret Clark
Haikus I loved you dearly There is avoid that only Memory canfill J Green Signs ofspring I see Yellow dancingdaffodils Underneath mywindow. J. B
Sun steals inmy room A new andexciting day greets me Time to riseand shine. J.B
Wartime experience of a young child Fell asleep in the House and woke in a shelter In the front garden Ann Crowe
My Farringdon Memory And I remember Faringdon, during those September days The word, like Conrad's Congo ivory, rang in the air. And I remember a cold grey morning and a voice, My mother's voice, "Get up quickly, the car is here." And I well remember the big chocolate brown car at the end of the drive, Seen atop my father's shoulders. After that I remember the drivers voice, "We are doing sixty miles and hour." Something to boast of to my friends I thought. And then waking outside an old cottage and hearing my mother saying: "We are going to stay with your grandmother for a little while." And my grandmother seemed very large and very jolly. And the cottage seemed very small and full of spiders. The spiders were my most vivid memory of Faringdon.. John Allen
Perivale I remember Perivale Between Hanger Lane and Greenford On the central line. At first you’d think Built up, no obvious sign Of rural beauty. Yet across the field Behind the houses Is Selborne Wood, an avian sanctuary Where the cuckoo sings its song in May. Memories too of Horsenden Hill Go over the top towards Sudbury Passing Greenford on your way. Below is the Grand Union Canal With ponderous barges chugging by And to the south St. Mary’s church Its tower etched tiny against the sky. Perivale, my home for twenty six years Has it a claim to fame? Think Art Deco, striking white facade, Western Avenue, Hoover is its name. Ann Crowe
Haikus WREN recruit agog King Admiral ignores her Recruit deflated Frances Jacoby Tenor tumbles headlong There goes my malleolus Six months of Dickens Frances Jacoby Why are we waiting The angry rioters bellowed Bring out the traitors. John Allen
My watch has stopped I shall be late again No excuse will do. John Allen My train is late All connections buggered up My usual fate. John Allen
February 6th 1952 It was break, the bell Rang. The King is dead. Silence. We went in sad, numb Ann Crowe
A suburban garden There is a jungle Out there.What are we to do? Dig for victory Ann Crowe
And I remember And I remember, I remember, Leaving my comfort zone. My plane journey in November 2001 To the war torn country of Kosovo In 1999, from March to June Ethnic cleansing took place I know. Houses burnt and looted, Women and children uprooted,
All adult males executed, cruelly killed. With mines, bullets, tanks and soldiers The villages were filled. I recall Berat Musa, saved from Serbian bullets Returning home after an operation on his back. Ten years old,welcomed with flags and flowers United with his mother, sisters and brothers Who had travelled through snow-covered roads for hours. There were many traumatized children And widows living in tents and barns And prisoners waving through iron bars With nothing to occupy their minds for weeks And mountains to which everyone escaped Dragging the aged and infirm on plastic sheets. And schools lacking crayons, pencil and books And smiling faces with welcoming looks. Friends asked if I would visit again ‘Yes, Yes’ I replied, ‘my enthusiasm will not wane to deliver Aid, rebuild broken lives and care for those in pain.’ June Bartlett
Memories of Spain (after Louis MacNeice) And I remember Spain In the spring,in March, the feast of San Jose And the tremor of excitement at the thought of unknown things to come And the cacophony of cornets, trumpets and drums played by the villagers from all around slowly and inexorably marching And the banners and fearsome effigies carried on the shoulders of men, young and old all slowly drifting towards the old town centre Where large fires were built as high as the intricate iron balconies around the square And through all this the all pervading perfume from the orange groves – the blossoms large and lush and fecund. And then, the effigies so painstakingly built from wood and wax and plaster thrown on to the all consuming fires to cries and cheers and celebration and much wine and song. And then as ceremoniously as they came they marched to the sea where women in black with time and work-worn faces cooked paella in large blackened pans The smell of saffron and squid and rice and rabbit filling the air. And I was there Jackie Hicks
Alford- A Remembrance I remember childhood holidays in my mother’s birthplace, a small village nestled in a fertile valley in the wilds of North East Scotland Where the family farm sat square by the roadside leading to the Highlands , Its four feet granite walls impervious to the incessant rain and gales; I remember walking behind the two heifers as they ambled amiably on their way to the byre for milking, their tails swishing, and their large brown eyes wary. The smell of dung mixed with hay on the midden; I remember,too, the sound of the separator in the kitchen, tick tick tocking like the kitchen clock, the cats waiting patiently for their cream reward. The sound of the hens’ cluck, cluck, clucking on the green, roaming free as they should, not shut up in an airless coop. I remember walking down the country road on a Presbyterian Sunday to the church nestled in the valley, where my forefathers are buried, The sad epitaph on the family grave to three of my mother’s siblings who never knew adulthood. I remember the sound of my cousins’ laughter as we played in the loft on wet days, the smell of grain pungent in the airless rooms, The loft where my grandfather had carved the date of some long ago thunderstorm. These days I will never see again but they are forever in my memory bank. Janet Currie
Waiting There are trials and testings in waiting around And there’s little for comfort in the space we have found Just one tree can throw a long shadow On the path we are seeking to follow. A schoolboy’s arrow in chalk Could show us the way to walk The ground is so rocky and bare It is hard on our boots and thin wear Confusions,illusions, diversions, intrusions All tend to soften the mind As we search for the last long path we are seeking And watching for Godot and our promised meeting. Firstly memories arise, and are snatched away By our pre-occupation with time and delay. There is warmth in a travelling companion, With banter and friendship we carry on. A joke and a jest, perhaps that is best, There is no end to the things you can do With a bowler hat shared between two. Non-sense can lighten the burden of thought In this non-sensical world, so absurd And Nothing times Nothing is Nothing of naught
So when Nothing happens, nothing’s occurred. It is tempting to think in the world we see That, maybe,this is the way to be. Evening softens the day’s bright light One could almost imagine the end is in sight As we rest and stay, intent not to despair We long for anew day that’s much more fair. In the last soft rays of the sun We look up to the tree, The branches are hung with new catkins we see, That give hope for the future, and also ensure The hazel tree lives and will always endure By the tree’s own endeavour Hazel nuts are forever! Nature cares,and takes the long view When nature decays it makes all things new. Which leads me to think, could it possibly be That Godot is waiting for me. Margaret Clark
Barnes Poetry
Transition They brought me from Belfast to Bristol, My parents. It took a week. On the overnight crossing to Liverpool They took their drinks on deck Watching the low hills along the Lough slip past In the last twilight of September. I stowed my trunk, my trousseau, Explored my tiny cabin And wondered which new-sewn skirt to wear.
For some days we meandered slowly southwards Through warm English sunshine Past huge fields, tall hedges, cosy villages. We slept under low beams, Peering through mullioned windows At stark stands of trees on sculptured hills. We ate, so strange to me, in pubs, Veal and ham, pickled onions, mild and bitter.
In hilly Bristol, stately Georgian terraces Curved around the drama of the Gorge And humbler houses tumbled down towards the docks. The university, mock-Gothic and modern, Welcomed me.
Bedded in with local Irish refugees My parents kept a surreptitious watch Over their fledgling and her exotic new companions. The English could be dangerous: “They’ll say one thing and mean another.” We sorted matters fiscal. My father and the Manager In his dark panelled office Watched patiently as I practised my signature.
Vicarious excitement mixed with their anxiety And incipient sadness. They were so proud But knew that they were loosing me. My father knew that we were loosing him. He died two days before my finals, A lifetime later.
Rosie Dalzell
A Poem - Memory And I remember ‌ What do I remember? Less and less. What happened in September?
But some memory clings. Like the first time for many things. Joys of jazz And family gatherings.
Looking forward not back Will help keep us on track. Things to come Replace memories we lack.
Terry Wheeler
Haiku Beside the new mosque Blue wisteria hides The ruined church door.
Marianne Clark
We began with ‘The Dead’ And came alive with close reading. And Free Indirect Discourse “Lily was run off her feet”. Perverted commas made me smile And, until Joyce said it, I had never twigged That Christ’s father was a bird.
JM Synge was next. About that chancer, that flyboy, ‘The Playboy of the Western World’ I am no wiser than fifty years ago Twelve thousand miles from here When I played a part and hadn’t a clue. A tragic comedy, a farcical burlesque? I can see why the Dublin audience rioted The boy’s father died three times.
I enjoyed Ulysses. Well chapter one anyway. How much more could we do in two weeks? Those undergrad types bantering in the Tower (Actually they were graduates) I suddenly thought of Waugh and Brideshead And Catholic, classically educated boys On Newman college staircase, Melbourne.
And why are Towers so important? Stephen Daedalus lives in a Tower,
I am sure there’s a Tower in one of Mrs Bowen’s stories I just can’t remember which right now And Yeats grappled with pen over sword While meditating in his Tower.
And so it goes until we get to MacNeice Another Irishman riddled with guilt Living in England Sitting on the fence, Even handed Self indulgent Non Sectarian Sympathetic to the poor and the peasant But glad he’s not doomed to hump a hod It all depends on point of view. I liked his Autumn Journal Topical, colloquial, quotidian Mixed up with flights and forays into classical allusion. November 1938 Civil War in Spain, darkness on the Continent Cf: Winter Journal 2010:Afghanistan, Iraq, The Taliban, Recession.
And that was when our tutor dropped his bombshell Astutely, right at the end of class With the packing up and scraping of chairs He uttered a word avoided till now Homework.
Write a poem! You don’t have to, of course! But it’s the best way to learn about poetry. It will give you an insight.
He knew we would. We’re a bunch of greys. And so we did. And yes, it is and so it does.
Frances Butler
Easter mystery Winter has seized the growing and green All stalled in its icy stare. Who knows what summer’s warmth will redeem, What life the cold will spare?
For the gardener may tend and shelter his shoots And hope for the resurrection But deep in the ground, entwined in the roots Lies the mystery of regeneration.
Rosie Dalzell
Haikus on ‘Redemption’ A definition Recovery of something From a pawn broker
Salvation from sin According to Jesus Christ But do we need it?
The white worm wriggles And the bed springs are squeaking But does the earth move?
Terry Wheeler
Walk to Nowhere
I remember most the noise, the numbers and the mix That day the doubters marched against the war. There on the Embankment opposite the ‘National’ Theatre of a different sort set out its store. An army of people marshalled with a purpose Parents with painted posters and children in tow Shades of CND mingled with a masked youth Displaying ‘Nuke Israel’ – a place I cannot go. Part carnival, part angry mob, part citizens in sorrow
The serried ranks moved further through the town. Gathering force in size, sound and passion. Could such a protest bring a government decision down? The mass moved slowly but determinedly that February day Snaking its way like a mist through a much loved city. Twice the people did this to prevent illegal action But the wheels were in motion; more is the pity.
Haikus Various
Sleep can bring bold dreams Joy and pain spring from deep fonts Tread hard on my dreams
Good trees bear good fruits Redemption is for all men What about us girls?
He broke her best doll Swore friendship for redemption So that’s how it works!
At Starbucks First sip of our cappuccinos puts chocolate on our lips. Unaware of the hiss of the steam machine, we three doze comfortable, Chatty, playful in our dappled woulds.
And your scent makes me Remember Madam Max Goesler and Maria Gostrey and Aunt Jenny, And our delight in moving with locked arms, locked step, locked pride. How Prepositions can be bold, how with so matters, how our graceful Ankles moved, light and quick and fine.
Ah, and you. Your craggy Mountain range is softened when you speak thunder, earthquakes.. Your voice sounds deep as creation. You are safety and danger. I need Strong verbs for you—come and go and see and be and shine, Where change and meaning live in the core, old as gravity. I do not skip With you, I run to you.
And yet the irony of Alice's amor vincit omnia still stands. There's love beyond what she has known. And amor hidden deep in ubi Caritas. When words are more precise than life they tell strange tales.
So I am happy to have sat under thunder and rain with Both of you. My cappucino was good. But having finished it I lick
my Lip and pause to ponder what I might have known of love had my Mother lived.
Ruth Fairbanks Joseph
Loss
I can remember when the robin came To entertain us from the apple tree With its special songs and magic colour In the snow And then the cat So gentle and so warm Never to be thought of as a source of harm Leapt from below And our heavenly gift was gone The red in tooth and claw so clear And the innocent garden Now transformed by fear
Margaret Collenette
Sleep Haikus
She sleeps, I clear up When I enter her bright smile Makes my gloom vanish.
‘Sleep, perchance to dream’ Desiring unconsciousness You black out the world.
Cats sleep curled right up Nose, tail, paws in a jumble Warm purry. Ears keen.
So, neutrality Switzerland, also Sweden Shockingly, Ireland.
Is neutrality Right in war or home décor Neutral views, dove tones?
Frances Butler
And I Remember
And I remember… Dad talking energy, if that’s not a bore, his memorial, the site for Radcliffe-on-Soar; Cheap power for all, that was the vision with a carbon footprint which now brings derision. A tail-enders trip to the Eagles Nest, Operation Manna, and the rest; Two fingers from Churchill, that’s the tale, but a medal from Juliana, through the mail.
The glory that once was Greece and Rome, can be seen within my modest home. I switch on and it comes into view, mediated via Shakespeare, so is it true? Pyramids, circles, the writing on the wall, Egyptians, Druids, Ozymandius and all. You raised those stones, you piled them high, now you’re as well known as Tesco, so it was worth a try.
Microbial creatures, out from the slime, We’ll go back further buddy, can you spare the time? The Big Bang, with starlight that’s come from the past, I’ll stop right now, with memory receding fast.
Peter Wood
Haikus Sleep, perchance bad dream Party at the embassy Wearing just a vest! John Moss
Children may cherish, Family care, but with age It’s old friends I miss. Rosie Dalzell
Winter journal
And I remember Barnes in pain In wet February’s chilling grey Though for the visitor the rain Was worse than the numb or the drawn or the recession-haunted faces Slip in via Mortlake tradesman’s door Past moribund brewery, slurped only here is Pinot, Cabernet or Franc; Past jazzy Bull’s riffs and choruses beyond the poor, Past Sainsbury’s despised but crowded market Past shrouded leaping arches, trains beneath tarpaulin, Turn then into Nassau, Bahama in pyjama Two million pound semis, ugh! Appalling Bright yellow elephant trunks house by house
Plodding spewing the residues of moved away owners’ lives Into booming metal skips topped with dusty clouds; Mushroom radio-inactive abandoned hives. Look north and the Old Father hides behind a grey concrete bunker Wall keeping the memories of Gustav and Dame Ninette safe and dry Bring down war and dance unto death the global warmists Who hide from Barnes its bounding glory, glory cry. No smiling black children in Nassau Road To mind your car while you away to learn Skirt the green and pond see the odd baby stroller Do they replace themselves here or for restful extinction yearn? Forget the car, exit quickly by fast train Want of Fielding’s Runners for safe route to lonely station Across glass diamond-strewn heath blind security cameras stare Is this where we are, New Labour’s high and dry nation? John of Twickenham (with apologises to Louis MacNeice) 2 Haikus Winter, white and cold, Plants buried by ice and snow. Secretly they grow.
All is quiet, still Till my dog barks noisily. Startled, I wake up. Celia Duncan
Summer 1944 The whine of the siren Urgent, compelling Froze us in the street Midway between our houses And spinning round My little friend and I Made speed for home after a brief goodbye.
So why the memory of this point in time: Was it the impact of the danger sign, The normal grudge in one so young That this had come to ruin the fun? Rather the awareness keenly felt Of drilled response, an automatic act. Our play that day was at an end. It was a fact And that was that. Felicity Page
Brits at the End of Empire - Aden 1962
Far from his own cool country, The last Governor throws a party In the evening heat. One by one Guests get up to play at bicycle-polo, While sharks hunt in the warm sea below Them, and the barren rocks glow In the light of the setting sun. 1 Marianne Clark
Grey ships on grey sea Heading to the shaft of light White on the Goodwins. Rachel Patterson
Night can be benign Or the night might frighten- then Can sleep bring blessing Rachel Patterson
1
‘evening heat’ – too hot for full evening dress so men wore Red Sea Rig – black dress trousers with short-sleeved white shirt and black cummerbund ‘bicycle-polo’ – in typically British style, games were played after dinner at Government House to avoid the possibility of too much conversation. ‘sharks’ – Government House stood on a high cliff with sheer drop to the sea beneath it, so bicyclepolo had its perils. ‘barren rocks’ - The Barren Rocks of Aden is a quick march tune played on bagpipes by Scottish regiments who served in that area of Empire
Ornithological registration
Bird in my hand I pipit bright, and flutter hearted. I ring his tiny leg. Then from my fingers fanned, In softest tumult, He’s departed. Jennifer Jeremy
Going Home Leaving the group, to walk On pavements, slick with rain Some broken, cracked like Mirrors of our lives foretelling Tragedy, loss and pain. Trying to remember the brightness And the talk, the memories of things past Which lift the spirits of us all. Lost in these thoughts which Struggled with the gloom, Arriving, and in my mind, to call ‘Hello my love, I’m home’ Only to hear an echo in An empty room.
Arthur Russell
Redemption If Redemption is being married to a murderer And living above a fish shop then Count me out.
Whatever the way The woman is the means In Francis Stuart’s ‘Redemption’ Where to be redeemed requires A woman to be the victim. Romilly, Annie, Margareta,
The ex wife Anyone else? Where the Word and the White Worm And possibly the white male writer Were one.
It seems that the White Worm Had a lot to do with it but Don’t overlook the white male writer Blighter.
Thank God for God At least one man’s son Took the rap for us all. Was prepared to stand up
To be counted and crucified To pay for the sins of the world For those of women As well as men To bring us redemption.
But innocence and purity must be Wiped out Democracy too They are likely rotten Like the rose gnawed From the inside by The White Worm.
Frances Butler